


how do you call your lover boy?

by kattyshack



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dirty Dancing Fusion, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Dirty Dancing, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Family, Forbidden Love, Light Angst, Modern Westeros, Romance, Seduction, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Sneaking Around, Summer Vacation, dany is old hollywood dramatic like the whole time, i didn't even know that was a tag I LOVE IT, sansa is johnny and jon is baby (mostly), the dirty dancing au literally only melissa asked for, theon is penny
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-07 22:17:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13444548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: “My aunt thinks I should stay away from you.”“And you?”A beat of silence. She quirks an eyebrow, his fingers twitch, and he tells her: “I think I don’t want to.”~The bad blood between the Starks and Targaryens might run generations deep — but it’s nothing next to the sparks that fly when Jon Snow and Sansa Stark meet on the underground dance floor at the Dragonstone Resort one long, hot summer…(title from “love is strange,” by mickey & sylvia)





	how do you call your lover boy?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Melissa_Alexander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melissa_Alexander/gifts).



> a/n: blah blah blah, kat has another wip, wanna fight about it?? updates are comin’ all across the board, but it’s a lot easier for me to jump from project to project when i’m feelin it, rather than finish one all at once. if i did that, i’d get bored REAL quick and wouldn’t write anything at all. so sporadic new projects are best for all of us, thank u. 
> 
> now, to business: i’ve taken some major liberties with the dirty dancing plot and characterization, to better suit the characters that appear in this fic (bonus: you don’t have to see the movie to read/enjoy this, although i recommend it bc it’s DIRTY DANCING, ffs). maybe the most notable change in structure is that, instead of the rich/poor dynamic, we have an ages-old feud between the starks and targaryens that serves as the main plot device (that, and also littlefinger encompasses all the skeeviest characters — robbie, neil, vivian — all by himself, the fuckin lech; aaand theon is penny, so scratch the abortion subplot). anyway, deviations from the source material aside, i hope you like! 
> 
> disclaimer: if you think i know anything about dancing, just think about the way joey tribbiani dances in that charles dickens musical episode of friends, because i am matt leblanc and matt leblanc is me
> 
> (chapter title from “[i’ve had] the time of my life,” by jennifer warnes & bill medley)

“Jon, would you mind _terribly_ taking a hiatus from trying to embarrass our family, or do you mean to take responsibility for my nervous breakdown?”

Jon rolls his eyes as his aunt heaves a long-suffering sigh — the only sort of sigh she knows how to heave — on the other end of the line. He shifts his phone from one ear to the other, if only to give himself a moment to think of what he’s meant to say to that. He’s sure he knows what Daenerys would _like_ him to say, but Jon’s never been one to grovel for his aunt’s forgiveness. Which, incidentally, is probably why she feels the need to heave so many long-suffering sighs in the first place; the Targaryens weren’t exactly known for their patience with those who wouldn’t prostrate themselves before this bastion of old money, even if “those” happened to include one of their own.

Then again, Jon had never exactly prided himself on the Targaryen half of his lineage — a thought he mulls over often, and the one that snaps him back to attention now, as Daenerys impatiently awaits his explanation.

Since he doesn’t have one, he decides to say instead, “You haven’t had a nervous breakdown, Dany.”

“Not _yet_ ,” she agrees, but does so in such a way that it doesn’t sound like an agreement at all, but rather an admonishment for something Jon hasn’t even done ( _yet_ , apparently). “But imagine the state I’ll be in if I’m forced to read about your barely legal exploits in the morning’s paper again.”

 _Probably sprawled dramatically across one of the many chaise lounges you have strategically placed around Dragonstone for just such an occasion_ , Jon thinks of saying, but Daenerys is already onto her next sigh.

“My poor nerves simply won’t be able to take it.”

Jon rolls his eyes again but doesn’t bother arguing the point. Daenerys wouldn’t listen, for one thing, and for another any explanation is fruitless. Perhaps it’s just that Jon had inherited too much of his late mother’s blood, rather than his father’s (and by extension, Dany’s), but his aunt understands Jon’s penchant for drag racing and fight clubs and other such trouble more on a surface level than she would if he tried to explain the intricacies of it.

_This is where the troubled youth’s at, Dany — racing cars and blacking eyes for a few extra gold dragons in their pockets — and I can’t use the family influence to help anybody if I don’t know where the problem’s at in the first place. So maybe I’ve totaled a couple of cars and lost a chunk of my endless inheritance in the process, but at least now we’re getting somewhere._

Besides, it’s on her watch that the paper prints anything about him at all — Dany had invested in Westeros’ thirsty gossip market two decades ago, a few years before Jon was even born, and by now she owns a good eighty percent of the country’s news outlets — so Jon expects she actually quite enjoys the free press he provides. It might not paint the Targaryen name in the most stellar of lights but then, what has any Targaryen ever done that _did_?

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Jon relents at last, although it’s hardly relenting when he doesn’t care all that much. So he’d totaled the Viserion last night — that was Dany’s least favourite car, anyway; she was often so careless about it that Jon wondered why she kept it at all. It’s not like he’d up and lit the Drogon’s engine on fire, for which she likely really _would_ have had a nervous breakdown. “I had Davos pick the car up. He said it’ll be a bitch to fix, but he’ll get the job done.”

“That’s far from the point, Jon,” Daenerys sighs (gods, but does this woman do nothing but sigh disapprovingly?). “I know we hardly ever see eye-to-eye —”

_Try never._

“— but your behaviour has really gotten out of hand. Now, I don’t blame you,” she adds, and Jon imagines she’s placed a dainty hand over her cold, dead heart in a manner meant to convey some semblance of real human emotion. “It’s my fault, really. I’ve let you go unchecked for too long. I thought you’d outgrow this rebellious streak of yours, like your father did —”

_You mean after he knocked up my mum and then fucked off until she died and he got saddled with me?_

“— and yet here we are. You’re twenty-four years old, Jon,” Daenerys reminds him like he’d missed his last few birthdays. “Which is _too old_ to be pulling these stunts.”

As much as Jon would like to argue that they’re not “stunts,” they’re (mostly) necessary steps in creating a repertoire with the underprivileged kids in Flea Bottom, nothing in this five-minute conversation has suggested that Dany would suddenly understand Jon’s less-than-Targaryen inclination to do good by those who don’t have the means to do good by themselves.

It’s Jon’s turn to sigh, but he doubts that it gets under his aunt’s skin as much as it does his own.

“Alright,” he relents again, and this time it feels far more like a surrender, “so what do you want me to do? Lay low until your cronies at _The Little Bird Enquirer_ or wherever lose interest? You could just tell them to sod off, of course.”

“And compromise their journalistic integrity?” Daenerys sounds as though she’s never heard anything more scandalous; but then, that’s how she always sounds, provided she’s not too busy sighing. “Jon, I could never.”

 _Great._ “So what do you suggest, then?”

“Well, laying low _is_ a good idea,” Daenerys admits. “I think it’s important that you learn to find some calm. Some balance. I’m not going to live forever, you know. Before you know it you’ll be the last of the Targaryens, and you’ll have to step up to honor our name and our businesses. You’ll be the chairman, the spokesperson, the head of operations…”

As Daenerys lists the many titles that follow the Targaryen name, Jon closes his eyes and counts to ten. He manages it twice before she’s finished.

“You’ll have to take full responsibility for our family’s legacy.”

 _I would literally rather die._ “So… ?”

A moment of silence follows Jon’s unfinished question; he doesn’t feel the need to ask _What do you want me to do?_ again in full, and anyway it seems that Daenerys would rather take this moment for some dramatic deliberation, rather than any actual consideration. Because when she does broach her suggestion, Jon is sure she’s had this up her sleeve the entire time.

“I think you should come to Dragonstone for the summer,” she decides. “You need to learn the ropes of the resort. It will do you and my nerves some good if you channel all that rebellious energy into something useful for a change.”

Jon grits his teeth. He _has_ been doing something useful, even when he’s not crashing one of his aunt’s hideously outlandish cars.

“I’ll send Jorah to pick you up,” Daenerys is saying while Jon begins his count to ten anew. “He’ll be there in the morning. No dawdling. I’d like you both back here by one o’clock tomorrow for afternoon tea, and you know how dreadful the King’s Road motorway gets at the weekends…”

 _Not nearly as dreadful as my summer’s going to be, surely_ , Jon thinks, but lets the words die before they can make it out of his mouth.

There is, simply, no arguing with a Targaryen.

 

* * *

 

The summer’s barely broken two weeks, and already days on Dragonstone are sweltering and the nights so humid that the lack of sun is little reprieve from the heat. The guest villas are open and airy and boast the most spectacular views of the island’s cliffs, forests, and orchards, but Dragontone’s band of employees — from waitstaff to activity coordinators to entertainers — would sooner have their seaside accouterments than any of the posh rentals. The view may be lacking, but the temperature on the beach is far more tolerable than the island’s tallest (and most expensive) hillside.

Besides, the view from the ground might not be anything in comparison to the cliffs, but it isn’t anything to turn your nose up at, either. Even when the white sun isn’t high in the sky to make diamonds out of the surface, the surrounding water is the deepest cerulean, more reminiscent of blue curaçao than the ocean it is.

But then, perhaps it’s only because Sansa could really go for a drink right now that she thinks so.

As though she had released some sort of telepathic energy, Arya arrives with two drinks in hand, courtesy of the poolside bar. As employees of the resort, the Stark sisters aren’t technically supposed to be lounging by the pool and mingling with the guests. But the girls are sociable by nature, and their respective jobs are such that they should be made available to any and all who might like to inquire after their services. No one would fancy being taught dance and aerobics by anyone aloof or otherwise unapproachable, so the rules were bent for the sake of sensible networking.

“Oi, teeny bikini,” Arya greets her sister after handing off the drink and plopping inelegantly down into the lounger next to her, “Gendry just ducked into the kitchen to tell Hot Pie to start a small grease fire — only Skeevy Pete’s been eyeing you for quarter of an hour, and Gendry can’t get him to leave the bar for anything short of petty arson.”

“Eurgh.” Sansa wrinkles her nose, but doesn’t spare a glance over her shoulder for the man in question. Looking Petyr Baelish’s way would only encourage him to do more than eye her from a safe distance. She takes a generous sip of rum from a curly pink straw. “I don’t know how he managed to wrangle an upper-level position here. He gives near-on everyone the creeps.”

Arya shrugs and takes a long pull of beer before answering. “Dunno how anyone gets hired here, to be honest. If it were up to personal affection, you bet your perfectly toned arse neither of us would’ve landed jobs.”

That’s true enough, Sansa knows. It’s not as though the Starks and Targaryens have any love lost between them, but the sisters had applied to Dragonstone five years ago as something of a lark, and found themselves with standing summer gigs ever since.

Of course, it wasn’t Daenerys who handled employment at her resort. That task was designated to her right-hand lackey, Jorah Mormont, whose own family had close ties with the Starks, so that likely had something — if not everything — to do with Sansa and Arya’s good fortune. If Daenerys didn’t want the sisters working at Dragonstone, perhaps she should spend less time delegating duties and more time seeing to those duties herself.

Sansa wouldn’t call the woman lazy, but she is rather… _lackadaisical_ , perhaps, in her wealth and prestige. The Starks didn’t get where they are by idling away their summers — or any other season, for that matter — entirely. Sansa would usually agree to disagree upon such trivial matters as to how someone else spends their time and money, but Daenerys Targaryen had succeeded in well and truly pissing her off over the past year, and Sansa isn’t one to lie down and take it.

Even if not doing so culminates in nothing more than her private, petty thoughts, Sansa at least feels justified in entertaining those.

The bylines of all those ugly stories regarding the decimation of Sansa’s most recent relationship hadn’t cited Daenerys Targaryen as their author, but the woman _does_ own all the gossip rags in Westeros, so Sansa feels there must be some responsibility lain at her feet. Perhaps that’s just the old Stark-Targaryen blood feud talking, but Sansa won’t begrudge her wounded pride — not to mention soiled reputation — its ailments, however superficial.

Old money and high society as they are, the Starks were certainly no stranger to the tabloids, especially since they didn’t act the part of old money or high society the way the notorious Targaryens did. Ned and Catelyn poured their time into charities rather than parties, and if their children weren’t being educated, they were working, so as not to live off their parents’ coattails all their lives.

Daenerys’ gossip magazines didn’t waste time on the “dull, mundane details” of Ned and Catelyn’s lives, and the boys were too young to be fodder for any scandal. Robb had been the subject of a tall tale or two in his youth, but he’d settled down with his wife in Volantis and was now no more interesting than their parents, as far as publications such as _The_   _Raven_   _Rumour_ and _Meereenese Monthly_ were concerned.

But Sansa and Arya were a different story entirely. And Sansa just so happened to get mixed up with the wrong sort, and forced to pay for it. She had quite been looking forward to work this summer because of it; she might be stuck on Daenerys’ swanky island resort, but at least she’d be too busy teaching dance to worry over her reputation. In fact, so far this summer her classes had been fuller than usual — no doubt because everyone wanted to get a good look at the poor, damaged and distraught Stark socialite, a fact which irks Sansa to no end, but she’s not going to say no to extra tips.

So. She slurps on her straw and lets the rum lull her into that sought-after state of ease. _C’est la vie._

“Looks like Skeevy Pete’s not the only one feeling you out,” Arya remarks, nudging Sansa from her private pity party. She jerks her chin to the left. “That one there’s had his eye on you since I left you for the bar. Reckon you might like the look of him better than Pete, though, so there’s that.”

Sansa follows her sister’s eyeline and, indeed, she _does_ like the look of this one better — despite that his sunglasses don’t, as he must imagine they do, hide the fact that he is rather unashamedly staring at her. Sansa decides she finds this behaviour endearing instead of irritating or cocky, if only because she likes the way one of his jet-black curls bounces in front of his eyes when the breeze kicks up.

And the whole shirtless-and-glistening-in-the-sun thing certainly doesn’t hurt. Not that Sansa _would_ — she is a high-class broad, after all — but she theoretically _could_ bounce a quarter off pretty much every inch of him to satisfactory results. And if the look of his mouth is any indication, her test results wouldn’t be the only thing satisfied, either.

Sansa wolf-whistles, low enough that only her sister hears; but as Arya chuckles, Sansa’s admirer quirks his lips in a little half-grin. She supposes it’s because she’s taken no such precautions as using her sunglasses in an ill-fated attempt to “act casual” — so he can see her roving, appreciative gaze in all its lowkey sexual glory.

(Or perhaps not so lowkey, Sansa admits defeat; she is only human, after all.)

Before she can decide how far to take this pseudo-flirtation, if she were to take it anywhere at all, a shadow falls over herself and Arya, and effectively disrupts any and all half-formulated schemes.

“Ladies, ladies, ladies…” Theon smirks at the pair of them, not half as lecherous as he is friendly, but the boy really can’t help himself. The girls know him too well to call him on it.

A lifelong family friend of the Starks, Theon Greyjoy was also Sansa’s fellow dance instructor, and regular partner when they hit the floor at Dragonstone’s various events, both official and underground. Once the guests got a free look at what the pair of them could do, they drummed up plenty of interest in their classes and ended up making a pretty penny off their shameless — and why shouldn’t they be, as flawlessly choreographed and executed as they are? — antics.

Arya snorts. “Bugger off.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be teaching a dance lesson?” Sansa wants to know.

“I was, wasn’t I? Well, one of the Tyrell cousins had a bit of a fainting spell — all day she’s been drinking nothing but sugary _liqueurs_ ,” Theon drawls the word out in an impression of his long-lost posh accent. He drops himself onto the end of Sansa’s chair near her feet. “Not a drop of water to be had ‘til we forced it on her. So once we got her squared away we fucked off the rest of the lesson.”

“Which cousin?”

Theon shrugs and swipes her drink. “Hell if I know. One of the little ones with the big hair and the voice that gives me a headache.”

Arya snorts again. “You just described every Tyrell virtually ever — except Marg and Loras. And Olenna, I s’pose, though I might only be saying that because I’m afraid she’ll find out I disparaged her, and then she’ll spoil my impeccable self-esteem for the sheer thrill of it.”

“I’m sure Gendry would protect you.”

“Um, puh-lease? Gendry’s feelings are even bigger than he is. Olenna would destroy him.”

“As fascinating as I find the emotional range of Arya’s boy toy,” Theon says, rather imperiously over the sisters’ shared laugh, “I’ve got some news that might be of interest to the entire class, and not just you lot. But first —”

Theon gives Sansa’s sun-reddened calf a sharp _thwack!_ “You want me to moisturize those stems for ya, love? You won’t be of any use to me on the dance floor if you succumb to sun poisoning.”

“Lather me up, sweetcakes.” Sansa tosses him the coconut lotion, which he catches deftly with one hand. “So what’s the word, o great omniscient one?”

“Watch it,” Arya warns teasingly. She waggles a finger at them as Theon massages sunscreen into Sansa’s legs. “You’ll make San’s new eye-fuck buddy jealous.”

“Oh?” Interest sufficiently piqued, Theon glances in the direction Arya indicated with her waggling finger. His eyes brighten upon contact. “Well speak of the fuckin’ devil, why don’t ya? That’s the hot gossip —”

“‘Hot’ being the operative word,” Sansa chimes in, and idly wonders where she might find a quarter, just in case.

“That’s Miss Dany’s nephew.”

_Oh, for fuck’s sake._

Sansa’s chest hitches with her withheld sigh; she _would_ nearly give it up to a Targaryen, wouldn’t she? She thought she’d learned her lesson about high-society boys after the Joffrey disaster, but the first one she’s salivated over since just so happens to be the highest society kind of boy.

Sansa Stark has a type, apparently. She’s not sure how she can be so affected and still so desperately uninterested, but…

 _Well._ She eyes the Targaryen heir — who’s still eyeing her back, mind, evidently unconcerned with Theon’s hands on her legs — wistfully, all the while smacking her psyche over the head with a rolled-up newspaper. _Here she is._

“He’s on the island for the summer hols,” Theon explains. Sansa wiggles her toes when he works lotion over them. “Apparently Miss Dany _summoned_ him here. He was doing some charity work all ‘cross the country. Did most of it way up north, near Hardhome, but most recently in Flea Bottom. Guess she wasn’t keen on her nephew rubbing shoulders with _that sort_ , so she had Mormont collect him so she could keep an eye on him for a bit.”

Arya grimaces, incredulous. “How d’you know all that? You never know anything.”

“Fuck you, I know shit.”

Theon and Arya dissolve into a round of good-natured bickering, as is their custom; by now Sansa’s learned to tune it out, and often enjoys it as a familiar sort of white noise. She does so now, as Theon starts work on her left leg and Arya passes over her own drink to compensate for Theon swiping hers. Sansa sips thoughtfully from the bottle, casts another more-wistful-than-she’d-care-to-admit look at her employer’s (and personal tormentor’s) nephew, and wonders…

But there’s nothing to wonder. So what if he happens to be checking her out? Sansa chastises herself. Is she really going to romanticize that? She should know better than that, especially by now.

Besides — she leans back in her chair, drops her own sunglasses over her eyes, and settles in for a boozy afternoon nap — it’s not like any good could come from a summer fling with a Targaryen, curly hair and a troublesome grin notwithstanding.

 _Talk about flirting with fire_ , Sansa muses, and pretends that that’s the end of that.

 

* * *

 

The absolute last place the likes of Jon Snow feels like spending his Friday night is at some resort social his aunt drags him to. But the last place he’d felt like spending his entire summer was the resort, period, and Dany had still managed to make him come to heel on that front, too. So really, Jon thinks he’s pretty much par for the course here.

This fact does absolutely nothing to improve his mood, but Jon dwells upon it over his second drink, anyway.

His forced sabbatical at Dragonstone could be worse, he supposes. The island isn’t particularly large, but it’s bustling enough that he can avoid his aunt whenever the mood strikes (and it usually does). And he can’t claim it’s dreadful to spend his days on the beach or at the pool — he _could_ lie and say it’s a drag, but who doesn’t want to deck a guy like that a good one square in the face? — and anyway, he’d only been at the resort for three days before he decided he might actually owe Dany a genuine thank-you for once in his life.

If he’d known that a stunning redhead with legs for days and seemingly nothing to wear but two-pieces frequented Dragonstone, he would have come to the island with no prompting from his aunt whatsoever, and he only would have stopped to put bells on on his way.

Much as he’d like to find out any little scrap of information he could about this unexpected object of his ardour, Jon has kept mum on the subject. In no universe would he ask Dany for assistance in his less-than-lucrative love life, and besides, doing so in this case would be highly immoral at best. The girl is likely a guest; she’d certainly looked the part, all high cheekbones and haughty — if a tad “come hither,” although that could have been Jon’s own overeager imagination talking — glances, and she’d looked quite at home lounging poolside with her mates.

(The girl had definitely been a friend of hers — a sister, even, Jon thinks for the umpteenth time; they didn’t look much alike, but there had been a similarity in their laughter that seemed especially familial to Jon. The bloke could be another story, but then, Jon doesn’t think she would have so thoroughly eaten him alive with her gaze if that were her boyfriend lathering her in sunscreen. Not for the first time in the last week, Jon wishes _ardently_ that he’d been so lucky as to pay homage to her naked skin in such a way — although perhaps more wickedly, as he is an irredeemable, hopelessly-besotted-at-first-sight pervert.)

As fate would have it — and Jon does admittedly put more stock in fate than he’d ever admit aloud — being dragged to this particular resort social proves to be just as much a blessing in disguise as the entire holiday itself.

The lights in the communal villa dim, the music intensifies, the multi-colored disco balls make their (questionably tasteful) appearance, and just as Jon’s thinking _Oh, Seven hells no_ and searching for the nearest exit, Dany’s sidled up next to him with what is soon to be the answer to his prayers:

“The dance instructors like to put on a bit of a show to sell their classes.” Daenerys flips open her hand fan — a red dragon on a black field, the Targaryen coat-of-arms and Dany’s most beloved fashion staple — and waves it vigorously to dispel the sheen of sweat upon her brow. “It’s a bit… _untoward_ , all things considered, but Jorah insists it’s good revenue for the resort. So who am I to object, I suppose.”

Jon frowns as the band picks up its tempo and the guests clear the floor. _Untoward?_ “What things should I be considering here?”

Daenerys sighs — because of course she does — just as the singer belts out the opening notes, the dancers slide across the parquet wood floor, and Jon’s heart flips backwards up into his throat.

“Those Stark girls…” Dany snaps her fan in time to the beat. “Wild as the wolves on their family crest.”

His aunt’s words hardly register in his ears, as his blood’s too busy rushing therein for Jon to take note of anything else. He’s sure his mouth is open, too, but he can’t bring himself to care about how stupid he looks as he stands gaping at the middle of the dance floor.

There she is — the redhead he’d been ogling at the pool, and he’s quite sure she knew it, too, his sunglasses be damned — dancing in the spotlight with the small brunette, who promptly spins her into the arms of that bloke with the lotion. The little one takes off to find another partner while her companions step into what looks to be a complicated and oft-practiced routine.

Jon is, in a word, _mesmerized_ by the fluid movements and the way those garish lights catch on her red, red hair and that red, red dress she’s wearing.

It’s only when her partner spins her out and her hair whips, her skirt twirls, that something his aunt said jogs Jon’s memory —

_Those Stark girls…_

“That’s —” he swallows past the paper-dryness of his throat in an attempt to clear it, then speaks loudly enough to be heard over the jazzy bass of the music “— that’s Sansa Stark?”

Daenerys nods, and Jon inwardly curses himself. His dumb arse _would_ lose it over a Stark, wouldn’t he? Just his sorry luck, and he’s too far gone to stop it now. He manages to be impulsive and stubborn all at once, which is a poor recipe indeed when he’s prone to flights of fancy and then determined to stick to them.

 _Fuck me sideways_ , he thinks, just as Sansa’s partner flips her over his back and she lands with a pristine precision that shouldn’t get Jon’s blood pumping, _and yet_ …

“Mhm. And her sister, Arya,” Daenerys says, validating Jon’s earlier assumption. “Jorah hired them a few years ago. He vouched for them, and I wasn’t in a position to turn down help at the time. They’re quite popular here. You’re not to tell them I said so, mind,” she adds, quite seriously, over the band and the _snap-snap-snap_ of her fan. “In fact it’s best you don’t say much to them at all. They’re a bit more trouble than they’re worth, I’m sure. Sansa especially has a bit of a reputation. But you know how those Starks are.”

Jon can’t say that he does — not personally, anyway. The Starks and Targaryens had quite the history of bad blood between them, but Jon had always chalked the feud up to tradition and little else by now. Regardless, it had never much mattered to him; it’s not as though he had any dealings with the Starks, or any reason to pay them mind.

Now, though…

The song shifts seamlessly into the next, and Sansa and her partner move with it. She’s hardly close enough for Jon to see the lights reflect on the blue depths of her eyes, but he catches the sweat glistening on her neck, the _swish!_ of her skirt ‘round her knees, and the tilt of her painted mouth when she spins again, shimmying her hips all the while.

Forget the dance partner. A pox on the blood feud. And fuck her reputation — Jon Snow is going down with this ship, whether he likes it or not.

And, quite frankly — there goes Sansa’s skirt again, and that laugh that rings out over the bass and the strings — he’s sure that he’ll love every minute of it.


End file.
